


Restraint

by kingfindekano



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingfindekano/pseuds/kingfindekano
Summary: One bed. Of course, the only room available at the hotel had one bed.





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleakmidwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/gifts).



> Just a quick "Oh no, the hotel room has only one bed, whatever shall we do" fic because that's always a _thoroughly_ enjoyable trope.
> 
> Set a few months after the ending of PR1, when Newt and Hermann are still riding the high of helping save the world, and the Precursors have _just barely_ begun to insinuate themselves into Newt's thoughts.

One bed. Of course, the only room available at the hotel had one bed.

Half of Newt had fluttered its delight at the prospect of sharing a bed with Hermann, though the other half had shrieked its horror at the prospect of _sharing_ a _bed_ with _Hermann,_ and what levels of self-control that might require. Self-control was not in Newt’s wheelhouse.

The pair of them had bickered, and glared at each other as if the hotel’s limited room availability was somehow the other’s fault, and at last grudgingly agreed to take the room. One of them could always sleep on the couch, Hermann reasoned: only for the receptionist to inform them that this room came with no couch. And thus, much to Newt’s disappointment, it was concluded that one of them could always sleep on the floor. Considering Hermann’s leg and hip, Newt knew the volunteer would inevitably be himself.

“Fine!” Newt had said, and huffed, and endeavored to conceal the fact that he would gladly sleep on the hard hotel floor for the sake of sparing Hermann’s joints, and for the sake of sleeping at least _near_ to Hermann besides. Ever since he and Hermann had drifted with the baby Kaiju those months ago and helped avert the apocalypse, he had loathed spending time away from his labmate.

He was ridiculously, hopelessly in love with his labmate.

When they arrived at the room, the floor space had been limited and freezing: not to mention the insufficient quantity of blankets. One complaint bled into another, and needless to say, Newt had wheedled his way into bed with Hermann by midnight. It would have been 10pm had he been able to suffocate the “Oh my God” that bubbled up his throat as Hermann exited the bathroom wearing the most neatly ironed set of pajamas Newt had seen in his _life_. They were pale blue, and dotted with little white polka dots. It had been utterly adorable, but Newt’s defense mechanism against Hermann’s endearing moments was unstinting mockery, and an offended Hermann had consigned him to the floor for another two hours before at last taking pity on him — either taking pity, or simply being worn down by Newt talking at him from the floor.

“Hell yeah,” Newt nearly said as he joined Hermann in bed, but at the last moment restrained himself. Here he was, eagerly sliding beneath the covers and propping himself up against the headboard next to Hermann: he did not want to seem too into it and let Hermann get the wrong idea. Or — the precisely right idea, really. Still.

It was cozy beneath the thick hotel blankets, warmth bleeding through to his very bones for Hermann’s quiet presence at his side. They sat close, though their arms did not touch. A gap Newt left between them for the sake of not sending Hermann skittering from the bed. It was a pity, Newt thought — he rather would have liked to curl up in Hermann’s lap and wind himself around the bony mathematician like an octopus.

A quick side-eye Newt cast at Hermann: he was seized by a moment of terror that Hermann could read his thoughts, and had heard that fantasy, and was about to smack him with his cane. But all was well. Hermann stared forward at the television, and his cane was tucked against the wall beside the bed, safely out of whacking distance.

Newt followed Hermann’s gaze, then. Some documentary was playing, something on sea creatures. It seemed quite dry. Always Newt had been drawn to the more monstrous of creatures over small adorable sea fauna. But Hermann stared at the documentary as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen (more fascinating, thought Newt with a mild pang of jealousy, than the sexy biologist currently sharing his bed). The narrator droned on about seahorses. Newt had no interest in seahorses, but by God, if seahorses were what fascinated Hermann on this fine October night, Newt would learn some fucking seahorse facts. He would memorize what information the documentary presented about them and tactically pepper it into his conversations with Hermann for the next week or so.

First small sea fauna, then maritime weather phenomena, then sea flora Newt and Hermann learned about. And then somehow it was 2:30am, and Newt felt more awake than when he first had climbed into bed. The fault lied with Hermann, of course. Damn him and his ridiculously chiseled bone structure. So flustered had he made Newt that Newt’s fight or flight instincts had kicked in and never quite diminished. It took an incredible amount of willpower not to lean over and kiss Hermann: he was so close, and so warm. But Newt settled for gradually, ineluctably scooting closer, and closer, and closer, until their arms were brushing, and then their sides were pressed together, and the drag of many hours had worn Hermann down too much for him to voice a complaint.

Newt _knew_ Hermann secretly loved his affection. He fucking _called it_ , he thought with a clandestine smile as he leaned subtly into Hermann and felt him shuffle ever so slightly closer into his side.

The television droned quietly on. The dreamy haze of deep night had settled well across the small hotel room, and in the darkness Newt and Hermann lay still. A thousand things always were clawing up Newt’s throat, begging to pour across his lips, but it felt like breaking something sacred to speak now and disturb this perfect silence. Night was the time that dragged deep truths into startlingly intimate moonlight, and here was one truth laid bare beneath the autumn moon: Newt loved Hermann. Loved him with every atom of his being, loved him like the sun loved the earth. Newt would stay by his side until the very end, if Hermann let him.

God, how he wanted to kiss the man beside him.

He settled for an overly fond glance sideways. Limned by the television glow, the planes of Hermann’s face were cast into pale ever-flickering radiance. His eyelids were drooping, dark lashes fluttering against his exhaustion.

What a wonderful, rare glance into the unguarded side of Hermann. Newt felt his own guard dropping as well: alarming sentimentality was worming its way into his chest, and it ached something fierce. It was a desire he could not sate without jeopardizing Hermann’s friendship.

Newt did allow himself one small indulgence, however. Casually disguising the movement with a yawn and a stretch, he slid his arm lightly about Hermann’s shoulders. Exhaustion smothered whatever protest Hermann might have had, and he sank further into Newt’s side, boneless. And then his head drooped against Newt’s shoulder, and Newt felt he might explode. The crisp scent of cucumber shampoo clung to Hermann’s soft hair, which tickled against Newt’s neck. Newt tried not to take a deep breath of it, and failed miserably.

The urge struck him to lay it all out to Hermann then and there. To confess to the man leaning into him that he was never not thinking about him, that he knew nothing in the world quite so beautiful as his laugh lines and the crinkles around his eyes and the way his fingers would absently drum sometimes against the handle of his cane. To confess that he had denied his feelings for a decade and shoved them beneath layers of petty bickering, but ever since their Drift, he had known those feelings plainly for what they were: love.

But something deep within him, some intangible amorphous thing in some corner of his mind, bled doubt into him. A chittering fear that Hermann would hate him should he come to know Newt’s feelings crept into his veins, and left him feeling simultaneously too hot and too cold. He nearly drew his arm back, but at the last moment shook such thoughts away, blinking. He did not like those thoughts, and they felt subtly wrong, though he could not say why. It was 2:42 am. They must have been a flicker of simple late-night insecurity.

“It’s rather late,” mumbled Hermann. The soft words scythed through the tumble of Newt’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” said Newt, and cleared his throat. “Yeah, man. Do you want to…”

 _Stop watching television like this and go to sleep_? The question hung trembling in the air. Newt did not want to speak it aloud. He very much liked their current situation.

Several moments of silence, then: “I’m not tired,” Hermann said. “If you’re up to it, I wouldn’t mind… continuing to watch this.” The documentary had looped from sea flora to an in depth segment on sharks. Hermann hated sharks.

“Fine by me,” said Newt, and tried to sound nonchalant as a smile stretched across his lips.

And so they fell back into their nighttime silence thrumming with unspoken things. The hours dripped languidly by.

Hermann made it until 3:16 before he passed out: boneless at last he slumped against Newt, and his breathing evened out with the pleasant rhythm of sleep. Fondly Newt grinned, and shifted his arm so that he better supported the weight of Hermann and his neatly ironed pajamas. The documentary had ended sixteen minutes prior, but Hermann had said nothing, and Newt had not acknowledged it either. An infomercial had started playing, and it was the middle aged woman peddling high-tech blenders that had at last put Hermann to sleep.

Newt’s back ached for sitting overlong in one position, and desperately he needed to stretch, and his eyelids were weighed down with drowsiness. But he remained motionless. He felt Hermann’s chest rise and fall with slow breaths, and hoped he had fallen into happy dreams.

Sliding Hermann’s weight from him and laying him down would be the sensible thing to do. Stretching his sore muscles would be the sensible thing to do. Going to sleep would be the sensible thing to do. But Newt Geiszler had never done a sensible thing in his life.

With determination he blinked his weary eyes, and cracked his back as best he could without jostling Hermann, and watched the infomercial.

Newt made it until 4:23 before he gave in to just a little weakness: he twisted his head to the side to plant a soft, fleeting kiss to the top of Hermann’s head. A gentle smile curved up Newt’s lips as he pulled away. He tried his damndest to stay awake despite the comforting heat of Hermann at his side, the blanket of nighttime air pressing in all around him, the monotonous drone of the infomercial. Something less than a voice, less than a thought told him he would not likely have the chance again to be so near to Hermann, to share in such a sweet moment with him. And so he savored every second that ticked by in warmth and the mild scent of cucumber and the steady rhythm of Hermann’s breathing.

By the time morning swept in, Newt’s eyelids were as lead, and he clung barely to consciousness. His head was pillowed against Hermann’s, and he squinted against the brightness of the television.

Hermann was an early riser. Soon enough Newt felt him stir against his side, felt his breath stop for half an instant as stiff tension poured through his every muscle. But then his breathing steadied, and he stilled against Newt once more, all the tension bleeding from him. Newt assumed he fell back asleep, though he could not tell for certain. He refused to move his head from where it rested against Hermann’s. Newt allowed his eyes to slide shut, and valiantly fought off unconsciousness.

It was an hour later that at last Hermann extricated himself from Newt. Anchoring himself with a light hand against Newt’s thigh, he pushed himself upright and climbed out of bed. Unceremoniously Newt toppled sideways: he had leaned so heavily into Hermann that in his absence, gravity tugged him down to smack the side of his face into the bedding. He let out a startled incoherent noise.

“Newton?” said Hermann, equally startled.

With great effort Newt cracked his eyes open, and rolled over to squint up at Hermann. “Morning, Hermann,” he said blearily.

“You’re never up this early.”

“I’m full of surprises.” Newt tried to move, to join Hermann where he stood, but the bed was terribly soft, and he was sinking into it. Easily he could pass out.

Hermann mumbled a response, but Newt was too groggy to discern the words, and with sleep deprivation he had lost a good portion of his grasp on the English language besides. Out of Newt’s field of vision Hermann moved. Something rustled, and then there was the sound of the coffee machine.

“Hhghg,” said Newt, and hoped Hermann understood it as a request for coffee.

Sure enough, Hermann rematerialized within his field of vision a few minutes later carrying two cups of coffee. Newt peeled himself with great difficulty from the soft bed, and took the proffered cup with barely functional hands. “Thanks, dude,” he said, slurring the words a bit, and followed Hermann to the little table between their bed and the bar with the coffee machine. Across from each other they sat and quietly drank their morning coffee. Newt’s was perfect, of course, and prepared precisely how he liked it: milk, no sugar.

Between sips, he watched Hermann. Watched the way his eyelids fluttered occasionally as he shook off his drowsiness, watched the way he with long fingers combed through his sleep-tousled hair. Despite Hermann’s best efforts to tidy his hair, he succeeded only in mussing it further, and for how he had slept against Newt, part of it was flattened against his forehead.

Newt must have had a look about him, for he noticed Hermann eyeing him suspiciously. “What is it?” Hermann said, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing,” said Newt, and took a sip of the coffee Hermann had known exactly how to prepare — Hermann, who had curled up against his side through the night. Hermann, who he loved. Newt smiled. “I was just thinking. I had a good dream.”

**Author's Note:**

> A special nod to anyone who catches the Virginia Woolf reference, and a shoutout to the lovely redruinz/bisexualburngorman for chatting with me about this concept and inspiring me to write this ficlet!


End file.
